


in tempore diligit

by Adenil



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Drug Use, Happy Ending, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), One-Sided Attraction, Poetry, Resigned Crowley, aziraphale senses love, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-01-23 11:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21319291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/pseuds/Adenil
Summary: Five times Crowley confessed his love to Aziraphale and one time he didn’t.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 302





	1. Under the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [D20Owlbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeforeCrimson/pseuds/D20Owlbear) for the beta! All mistakes are, of course, my own.

In those early years the sky always seemed a great deal closer. Aziraphale’s work kept him near the human settlement. There were still only a handful of humans, and he knew all their names and their relationships and their hopes and dreams. He knew how to lift their spirits when they were sad and how to add light to their lives during periods of darkness.

He knew Crowley as well, or thought he did, in the place where the humans lived and died and the sky was very close. Aziraphale tripped over the demon often enough, since their work kept them in the same area. He’d missed his chance to smite the demon that day on the wall and at this point it felt like it would have been rude. What could he do? Say oh, yes, hello, I know we usually sit on the hill and watch the humans ’round this time but I rather think you could do with a good smiting instead. Just hold on there, chap, it’ll all be over quickly.

Preposterous. Smiting someone after being friendly with them was just…cruel. And Aziraphale refused to be cruel.

So Aziraphale sat with his knees folded beneath him. Beside him, Crowley lounged. He had a stalk of straw between his thin lips and it twisted and fluttered in the breeze.

“What do you reckon?” Crowley said after a while of silence.

“Hm? Sorry?”

“Said, what do you reckon? Place is getting a bit crowded, or don’t you think?”

“Hm, I suppose. I’m certain the humans will come up with a solution for it.”

“Could stop having so many babies.”

Aziraphale chuckled softly. “I can’t imagine they’ll do that.”

Crowley leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. His yellow eyes closed as he basked in the sun.

Aziraphale watched Crowley’s grass stalk move from one corner of his mouth to the other. It seemed to take a jaunty walk before settling into the shadowed divot of his lips. Aziraphale imagined that snaky tongue pushing it along, tucked just out of sight behind teeth and skin. Crowley always seemed far more adept at using his tongue that Aziraphale was. His own tongue felt floppy and heavy in his mouth. He hadn’t yet found a use for it beyond shaping words as he talked.

“They might split up,” Crowley said then.

“Split up?” Aziraphale blinked. In all of humanity’s existence, never had any of them separated from the others. There weren’t that many yet, of course, and there was safety in numbers. Even when they went to gather food they went in twos and threes and always returned before nightfall. “What would that even look like?”

“Dunno. But this many people all standing on top of one another can’t last forever. Tempers get heated. Harsh words get said. Someone’ll get sent off, I’m sure, and others will decide to leave on their own.”

“I can’t even imagine it,” Aziraphale said, gazing back over the valley at the human village.

Crowley shifted beside him, turning so that his stalk of grass poked Aziraphale in the side. When he spoke it was conversational, off-hand. “Sure you can. It’d be like the split. Like demons and angels. Humans have already wandered away from God’s light, so why wouldn’t some of them wander a bit further yet?”

Annoyed, Aziraphale batted at the stalk of grass that was tickling him. “They haven’t wandered from God’s light,” he insisted. “At least…not really. Not _truly_. I think? I-I’m quite certain she still loves them. I would feel it if she didn’t.”

“Ah, yes. The Angel that can feel love. Bet that was all the rage at parties Up There.”

“Angels don’t ‘party,’ thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome.”

Aziraphale glared down at him. “That’s not what I meant.”

Grinning, Crowley plucked the stalk of grass from his lips and tossed it away. It arced through the air before landing upright in the dirt. He rolled over completely and slinked down so he could rest his chin on Aziraphale’s knee. His yellow gaze looked up impishly at Aziraphale. “Your sense must be going haywire half the time, with all the love going on down there.”

Aziraphale grimaced. He looked away from Crowley’s knowing gaze. “Well, it isn’t all love what they’re doing, as you very well know. So it’s quite alright.”

“Hmph.” Crowley wiggled again, trying to catch Aziraphale’s eye. Aziraphale staunchly refused to look at him. “What will you do?”

“Do?”

“When they split up. Who will you go with?”

“They aren’t splitting up,” he said with more confidence than he felt. Curse the demon for planting those little seeds of doubt. (Not the big one, not Doubt, but still…doubt.) “Perhaps they’ll build a bigger settlement.”

“Unlikely. They’ve already used all the wood bits around here for the houses they do have.”

“Then they’ll simply have to go further to find new building materials. Oh, we—that is, _I_ could help with that. Give them a little nudge in the direction of some nice trees.”

“And I’ll nudge them towards cliffs. Good thinking, Angel.”

Aziraphale huffed and glared down at Crowley, which was of course what Crowley had wanted. He basked in Aziraphale’s stern glare the way he had previously been basking in the sun. Aziraphale softened. As much as the demon annoyed him he really wasn’t such a bad entity. It was just his nature to be contrary.

“…I think I might go with them.”

“Hmm?” said Aziraphale.

“With the ones that end up leaving, I mean. I…think I might want to go exploring. See the world. Or more of it, at any rate.”

Aziraphale got the sense that Crowley was waiting for him to say something, although he hadn’t a clue what. “Well, that’s quite alright. I don’t suspect any will be leaving, but if you want to explore the world you’re more than welcome to.”

“No.” Crowley wiggled upward until he was kneeling in front of Aziraphale, their knees touching just slightly. “I mean…would you want to come with me? Us. With me and the humans who end up leaving?”

“Oh, I…”

He was stumped. He so very much liked the little village these humans had built for themselves. It was warm and comfortable and familiar in a way that Eden, and even Heaven, had never felt. It would be a shame to give it up so soon.

“Perhaps. After a while.”

Crowley nodded at that, as if it was the best he could have hoped for. He flopped back down and rested his head in Aziraphale’s lap. It was a common enough position for the two of them (and another reason why smiting the demon would be in bad taste now. How could he smite someone who was so trusting of him?). Aziraphale stuck out his legs so Crowley could get comfortable and then carded his fingers through Crowley’s long hair.

“Getting tangled again,” he murmured.

Crowley grunted. “Well whose fault is that?”

“You could comb your own hair, Crowley. The humans invented hairbrushes years ago, you know. As soon as they figured out the stuff on their heads kept growing.”

“Theirs aren’t made for my hair,” Crowley said, arching back into Aziraphale’s touch. “Your hands _are_.”

“Oh, very well. But you owe me a grooming later, then.”

Later, after the sun went down and the humans were asleep, Aziraphale could let out his wings in the pale moonlight. He was already looking forward to Crowley at his back, deft fingers in his feathers.

In the heat of the day things were quiet for a while. Down in the valley the humans were snatching up bits of shade to nap in. On their hill Aziraphale and Crowley miraculously avoided the heat thanks to a cloud hovering perpetually overhead. Crowley’s eyes had slipped shut as Aziraphale worked at the knots in his hair. It was quite tangle-free now, but Aziraphale still kept running his fingers through it. It was nice, sometimes, to touch Crowley’s body. He so rarely got to touch and be touched, and after the endless mingling of Heaven he often felt quite alone on Earth. Crowley wasn’t exactly an Angel, of course, far from it. But his skin still thrummed with the same loving energy. It was a familiar feeling Aziraphale had noticed their very first meeting, and he didn’t mind partaking in it now.

“You know,” Crowley said after a long time of this. His eyes were still closed, his lips softly parted. “I love you.”

Aziraphale, who loved everything with the same effusive warmth, did know. “Of course. And I you. Those of our stock are made to love.”

A twist appeared at the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “Sure,” he said. He slipped out from under Aziraphale’s hands and stood up. He brushed off his robe. “Well, I’d better get back down there. A lot of sloth going to waste.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll be down in a while to do some thwarting. But I think I’d like to enjoy the afternoon just a little bit longer.”

Crowley nodded and his mouth twisted again, this time into a smile. “Don’t take too long or I might start getting bored.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want a _bored_ demon on my hands. I’ll be along promptly, of course.”

“Of course.”

With a sardonic wave Crowley ambled down the hillside. Aziraphale sat back on his heels and watched him go, thinking pleasant thoughts in the sunshine.

It was not until several decades later, after Crowley had gone off with the first exodus from the settlement and Aziraphale was feeling very lonely indeed, that Aziraphale had an inkling that perhaps he and the demon meant very different things by the words, “I love you.”


	2. In the Shadows

Humans were remarkably creative and inventive creatures. After they invented art they refined the practice in leaps and bounds. First there were paintings in sand and charcoal, then they’d started making permanent pigments, and soon enough developing brushes. They took to making art out of the way words could sound, telling things called “stories” and weaving myths of their own. They liked to present this poetry to each other by pretending to be people they weren’t. Aziraphale was fascinated by the idea, and even adopted it for himself the next time he entered a new human settlement. He pretended not to be an angel, and to instead be a human, and was amazed at how readily the humans accepted it.

Along with the poetry came a thing called theater. Aziraphale was quite taken with it, and traveled far and wide to see every bit of theatre he could.

He was in China, during one of their golden ages (humans were always having golden ages, the dears), in an open courtyard watching one of Li Longji’s shows.

It really was a sight. They’d invented a new form of art just a few centuries prior (or was it a millennia now? Oh, how time flew by!), a thing called “puppetry,” and Aziraphale was entranced by the colors and moving shadows. The humans actually controlling the puppets seemed not to exist. They were shadows themselves, mere whispers of movement as the paper heads and masks and bodies ducked and turned, twisting as the story unfolded. And the _music_. Oh, it was divine. Instruments Aziraphale had never heard—could never have even _dreamed_ of hearing in Heaven—curled luscious music into his ears. He was enraptured.

So distracted was he that it came as quite a surprise when the production ended and the actors began to remove their costumes, and Aziraphale saw someone he knew quite well.

“Emperor, please, I simply _must_ meet the crew,” he said quickly.

“Of course!” The Emperor had a jovial bearing. Like many wealthy humans he enjoyed the finer things in life: fine entertainment, fine alcohols, and fine women. He had two women at his side right then. His wife, Wang, and another woman Aziraphale hadn’t met before and hadn’t been introduced to that night either.

“My dear,” Empress Wang said, resting her delicate hand on his sleeve. “The moon will not be with us long.”

“Ah, yes.” Li looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid I can’t escort you tonight. Wu will see to you.”

There. That was her name. Aziraphale turned to Wu and bowed deeply.

She tittered behind her hand, apparently finding him odd and funny. She rose from her position beside Li and gave him a kiss on the cheek, which his wife frowned bitterly at but made no comment of. Slowly, she made her way down the steps to where Aziraphale was standing and trying to hide his impatience. He cast a glamour over himself just in case, so that Wu would not notice anything was amiss. Best not to appear too rude in front of his hosts.

He extended his arm to Wu and she accepted it graciously, and together they walked towards the garden where the actors were engaging in what Aziraphale had heard called “the after party.”

The actors and musicians rejoiced when Wu entered the scene. She tittered again and abandoned Aziraphale to slip into the crowd. He frowned, a bit put out that she hadn’t even introduced him. But no matter. He didn’t need an introduction.

Aziraphale deepened his glamour so that the humans would think he wasn’t even there. He skirted around the edge of the revelry towards a man-shaped shadow in the back. A streak of red stood out against the black of his costume, and already he was smiling as Aziraphale approached.

“Aziraphale! Fancy meeting you here.”

“Crowley.” He nodded, aiming for curt politeness and unfortunately sliding into ardent appreciation for the demon’s slim form in that dark costume. “I should say the same. Whatever are you doing in China?”

Crowley tipped his head. “Is that what they’re calling it these days? This and that, I suppose. Trying to get the fresh-faced emperor to lay off all the Golden Age-making and indulge in a sin or two. I see you’ve already met one of my aids in that regard.”

He gestured and Aziraphale turned to look, seeing Wu surrounded by men who were hanging off her every word. Her mouth was still hidden behind her hand so Aziraphale couldn’t read her lips to know what she was saying, but whatever it was must have been enthralling to have the men all acting like that.

“Oh, really,” Aziraphale said crossly, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. “Must you?”

“I must indeed,” Crowley said. He didn’t sound proud. A bit resigned, perhaps. “But enough of that. What about you? Didn’t come all this way just to enjoy the show, did you?”

“Er, yes, actually. I’d heard about the wonderful new things they were doing with theatre out here and I thought I’d give it a look see.”

“Yeah, Emperor Xuanzong is an odd one. Keeps dumping all his money into the arts.”

“Better than war, at any rate.”

“Quite.”

Crowley tipped his head in invitation and Aziraphale accepted the gesture, following Crowley into the thicket of trees. Side-by-side they walked away from the noise of the after party and into the quiet darkness of the night beyond. They walked in silence for a bit until Crowley lightly nudged him with his elbow.

“And what did you think of the show? Worth the trip?”

“Oh, more than.” Aziraphale beamed at him. “There’s nothing like it at all back West. Everything is very dour there, I’m afraid. People are far too worried about where their next loaf of bread will come from and they haven’t any time to think about creating.”

“They should switch to rice if they haven’t any bread.”

Aziraphale looked heavenward for strength, and then slotted his gaze over to Crowley. “I did quite like the show, my dear. I wish I could have known it was you in it, though. Which character did you play?”

Crowley stopped walking. He waved his hand and a box appeared in his grasp. He opened it and tipped it towards Aziraphale.

Aziraphale leaned in, and gasped in delight at the sight of the red and black mask. “Oh! No wonder I liked them so much!”

“Shut it,” Crowley said, a faint blush on his cheeks visible even in the dark. “I’m hardly an actor.”

“Oh no? I thought you did quite splendidly. Dancing and frolicking about.”

“I do not _frolic_.”

“It was such a sprightly little dance,” Aziraphale teased.

Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale smiled politely in response. “Now that I know which character you are I shall have to watch for you during the next performance.”

Crowley turned away. “You, ah, won’t be able to, I’m afraid. I’ll be leaving tomorrow. Got a job to do down south.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale attempted to not appear frightfully disappointed. He failed spectacularly. “So soon?”

“I’m ’fraid so. I would have tried to stick around if I’d known…known my acting would be in such high demand.”

“Such a shame.” Aziraphale sighed. “I would have liked to see you perform again.”

Crowley bounced from foot to foot. The box was still in his hands, open so the mask could stare up between them. “…It’s not the same without the music,” he said suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“And I don’t know any monologues so I’ll just-I’ll just do a poem, if that’s alright?”

He had the mask out of the box. He slipped it over his head before Aziraphale could agree, or even understand what was happening. As the mask slipped on Crowley seemed to disappear, and a new spirit overtook him.

There was light, suddenly, light from nowhere that cast dramatic shadows over the masked form. The mask turned so that only the black side was visible to Aziraphale. An echo seemed to move through the trees, yet no words had yet been spoken. There was no music but the rustling of leaves.

“I long for you day and night,” the echo began. “The autumn crickets chirp around the golden railing of the well. The light frost increases my misery and even the bamboo mat looks cold.”

The figure bowed and swayed like grass in the wind.

“The light from the lonely lamp is dim and my thoughts weigh heavy. I roll up the curtain and look in vain at the moon, sigh deeply. The beautiful woman is like a flower separated by clouds.”

Arms came up as if on sticks. The figure danced, trancelike, hypnotic even as it was already hypnotized.

“Above me is the blue void of the sky. Below is the river and dashing waves.”

Down the arms swept, and then back up, crashing again and again, falling, and the shadowed figure twisting and turning and writhing.

“The sky is so vast, the world so wide, and the trek arduous.”

The shadow approached, retreated. Its form wavered between light and darkness.

“Even in my dreams it is hard for me to fly to you.”

The mask turned, red and brave, and there was a flash of yellow in the slit of the eye.

“My eternal longing aches in my heart.”[1]

It stopped.

The echo retreated back into the trees. The shadows faded. Aziraphale had quite forgotten how to breathe.

Crowley lifted the mask up and the spell lifted. “There, see? Not as good without the music.”

Aziraphale swallowed. When he spoke his voice was rough as sandpaper. “It was splendid, my dear. Truly splendid.”

Crowley smiled softly. He shuffled awkwardly back to his box and put away the mask, disappearing the whole thing with a wave of his hand. “Anyway, I don’t quite know what you see in theatre. It’s fine for a lark, or as a means to an end. But I don’t know that I would travel around the world just to see a play.”

_And what would you travel around the world for_? Aziraphale wanted to ask. But he already knew the answer quite well.

Crowley was looking anywhere but at him. He lifted his hand into the branches of a nearby tree and plucked a pear from between the leaves. It wasn’t quite the season for it yet, but the pear still dutifully ripened in his hand. “Hungry?” he asked, and offered it to Aziraphale like an olive branch.

Aziraphale accepted it. He wanted to tell Crowley there was no need to apologize, but unfortunately he wasn’t sure that was true. He took a bite and sweetness flooded his mouth, soft granules of pear flesh mixing with the paper-thin skin. He sighed.

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale murmured. “Won’t you have one?”

Crowley shrugged and plucked another pear from the tree. He only took a single bite, though, and handed the rest to Aziraphale when the angel had finished his first.

“Suppose we should be getting back,” Crowley said, kicking at a pile of leaves.

“If you like,” Aziraphale agreed. “But my glamour is quite strong today, and the Emperor is…otherwise occupied, anyway. I don’t think I’ll be missed if, perhaps, we stayed to watch the sun rise?”

Warmth and adoration radiated from the demon. Aziraphale shrank back from it, realizing that perhaps he was being too cruel. The pear tasted of nothing in his mouth, yet he finished it.

They went to the wall and sat together as they often did, although not quite so often as they had once been able to. Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s coolness, his gentleness, all along his side even though they weren’t touching. It merely permeated the air between them, as if Crowley’s essence hadn’t gotten the memo that there was space between them at all.

Aziraphale tipped his head back towards the sky and imagined a mask covering his face. He closed his eyes and waited for the sun to rise.

[1] “Everlasting Longing” by Li Bai, translated by Elka Lee-Shapiro and slightly edited by me. https://issuu.com/elkaleeshapiro/docs/eas_capstone_in_design_book_


	3. With Lips and Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dub con this chapter.

The humans celebrated vociferously that night. It was a bumper crop, and the skies were clear, and they had survived another revolution around the sun.

Aziraphale had experienced many, many revolutions around the sun, but that didn’t stop him from celebrating this one. There was meat in abundance: roasted pig and venison, chickens plucked and brined and fried, lamb and goat, and sausages as long as his forearm. Bread with hard crusts and soft inner crumb perfect for soaking up grease and drippings. Large vegetables (inspiring no small amount of Pride, unfortunately) were sliced and diced, roasted, steamed, baked, and sweetened with sugar. His tankard was never empty and the beer was always cool and refreshing. All around him were the sounds of laughter and song, the joyful movement of dance.

And at his elbow, Crowley, with a smile of his own as he lifted his tankard in another toast.

“Fuck the king!”

Not exactly a toast, then, but the rest of the crowd still roared back, “Fuck the king!” and downed their drinks eagerly.

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s tunic and tugged him back into his seat. “That’s quite enough of that,” he muttered.

“What?” shouted Crowley, leaning in to hear him over the noise.

“I said that’s quite enough of that!”

“Aw, Angel, you’re no fun! I’m just sowing a little discontent among the locals.”

“I’m well aware. And I’d really rather you not.”

“What shall I do then?” Crowley was still leaning at him, wavering drunkenly in the warm haze of the bar. He tipped a bit closer, his nose perilously close to bumping Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale caught him and set him upright on the stool. “You might try simply enjoying yourself without all the temptation.”

Crowley pondered that for a moment and then lifted his tankard. “To enjoyment!”

“To enjoyment!” roared the crowd.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“C’mon, Angel! You have to drink to that!”

“Oh, very well.”

He sipped at his beer, but Crowley nudge the bottom of it encouragingly. With a put-upon sigh Aziraphale upended his drink, swallowing deeply.

“There you go!” Crowley crowed. “Now it’s a party!”

Aziraphale was really more interested in the food than the drinking, but now that he’d gotten truly started he found himself quite liking the buzz building beneath his skin. He drank between bites of goat and watched Crowley down the rest of his beer, slam it on the table, and stumble to his feet.

“Where are you off to?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley didn’t appear to hear him. He marched drunkenly to the circle of dancers and bulled his way in. They invited him in easily and he twisted and twirled with the fair maidens and young lads. Frolicked, Aziraphale would have said if he didn’t know what kind of trouble a statement like that would lead to.

It was wonderful to see Crowley like this. His face beamed, a ruddy mixture of too much drink and just enough happiness. There was a lightness to him, a freedom. He took a woman’s hand and spun her around, tipping her down and then letting her spin him back to be tipped in kind.

There were two braids in Crowley’s hair, small ones, each one running from his temples back to fade into the loose hair flowing over his shoulders. The braid on the left had come loose and was slowly working itself undone as Crowley drunkenly danced with the humans. His hair caught the lantern light marvelously, enticingly. There was a litheness to his form as he moved the way a snake might move; if the humans hadn’t been quite so drunk they might have formed suspicions. But as it was they laughed and spun together, milling bodies and arms, swaying hips, waists tucked in, and the shape of Crowley’s slender calf beneath his dark tights.

The music was starting to get too loud for Aziraphale to hear himself think. He finished his plate and wiped delicately at his mouth, folding his napkin and setting it aside. He rose and wasn’t surprised to find Crowley at his side in an instant.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Just a bit loud for me, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said apologetically.

Crowley was leaning very close again, so near Aziraphale that his yellow eyes were faintly visible behind his glasses. They were half-lidded, sloppy and soft with drink and joy. “Where are you staying?”

Aziraphale told him, and Crowley slipped their arms together and escorted him from the party. Outside the night air was brisk and invigorating. Aziraphale’s awareness sharpened, but Crowley didn’t seem to sober with the cold.

“Parties. I’ll never tire of ’em,” Crowley said. “Humans—humans knew what parties were for right from the very beginning. Bloody good invention, parties. Right out the gate, bam! Adam and Eve jus-just partying down. Couldn’t have done it better.”

“Surely they’ve made some improvements since the beginning?”

“Impro—Impor—Impis—doing it better? Nah. Only with the invention of alcohol. After that there was no getting better. ’S already perfect!”

Aziraphale hummed. Although Crowley had offered to escort him, he seemed to be doing most of the walking for the both of them. Crowley leaned heavily on him and dragged his feet in the dirt. “You seemed to like the dancing.”

“Mm, it’s warm.”

Crowley nuzzled against Aziraphale as he said it, and Aziraphale smiled fondly. They had reached the inn where he was staying and went inside together. The innkeeper was dozing behind the counter, looking glum, and Aziraphale gave him a gentle nudge towards the party. A quick miracle promised there would be no unruly human activity at the inn tonight.

His room was upstairs, and Crowley was even more useless going up the steps. He stumbled and clung to Aziraphale pitiably.

“Really, dear. You could sober up a bit.”

“Don’t wanna. Feeling warm.”

Aziraphale sighed and waved open the door to his room. They stumbled in and Aziraphale attempted to deposit Crowley on the bed only to find himself stuck fast to the demon. Long fingers curled into his tunic and held him close. Crowley pressed his face into Aziraphale’s chest so hard his nose bent.

Crowley said something that sounded like: “Shmrmsm vndfj.”

“What’s that, dear?”

Crowley pulled back a bare inch. “Said it was a good party. Wasn’t it?”

“Wonderful.” He tried peeling Crowley’s fingers off uselessly.

“All the beer. And the dancing!” Crowley stood up suddenly and bowled into Aziraphale, nearly knocking him off his feet.

“Crowley!”

“The spinning and the twirling and the spinning, Angel!” Crowley demonstrated by twirling Aziraphale around, just as he had with the human woman, and then dipping him low. “There’s an imp—impor—there’s a better for you! Dancing’s getting better all the time!”

“You were quite lovely out there,” he said, which hadn’t been what he’d meant to say at all. He’d meant to say something biting, or order Crowley to release him this instant. Why hadn’t he said that?

Oh, he was all discombobulated. Crowley hardly seemed to notice, thankfully. He was still swaying his hips, and he’d started to hum. He twirled Aziraphale back upwards and then wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist.

Now he was the one clinging to Crowley; he felt quite off balance with Crowley leading him in a drunken two-step.

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale tried to warn. “Do be careful. You’re a bit—ack!”

Crowley tripped over his own two feet and they fell against the bed. Aziraphale landed hard atop him, knocking the wind out of him and putting an end to his humming.

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, dear, are you alright?”

“Alright? Alright?” Crowley began to laugh. He wiggled beneath Aziraphale. “Alright, he asks. Alright!”

“That’s not precisely an answer.” Aziraphale was fond, though.

Crowley had wiggled enough to get Aziraphale off of him. He was partially off the bed, his feet just touching the floor, one arm over the trunk Aziraphale’s body and the other folded against Aziraphale’s stomach. He seemed to have gotten stuck in that position, as if he didn’t know which direction was up. The round, blank lenses of his sunglasses were tipped towards Aziraphale, forming an impenetrable glassy shield blocking his truth.

Aziraphale smiled up at him. “Are you—?”

He stopped. He stopped because Crowley had begun to move again, to wiggle again, but a slow sort of wiggle. A long, luxurious sort of wiggle that made his hips roll flush against Aziraphale. Perhaps not a wiggle at all, then. Perhaps, in fact, it was a _thrust_.

“Oh.”

“Don-jus—‘s okay,” Crowley muttered. “It’s okay, jus’ let, jus’ let me…”

He thrust up again and all of Aziraphale’s thoughts flew from his head. A faint, empty chiming sound reverberated between his ears as pleasure blossomed at the feeling of Crowley against him, pressed all along his body. Aziraphale made a small sound, hardly noticeable, really. Certainly not worth making a fuss over, as it certainly was nothing like a _moan._ Except that the sound made Crowley’s eyebrows arc towards his hair line and he let out a hissing, “Yessss.”

And he was moving. Faster now, with purpose. He slid down until he was between Aziraphale’s legs, his hands coming to rest on his soft inner thighs, face bending down. There was a look of intent on his brow that Aziraphale couldn’t fathom, couldn’t understand through the haze that suddenly gripped his mind as Crowley licked his lips.

“Dear, perhaps-perhaps we should sober up now.”

“Not yet,” Crowley muttered. He licked his lips again, that long and dexterous tongue poking enticingly before disappearing into darkness again. “Not yet.”

Hands were upon him. Clever fingers working loose the string on his trousers, unlacing it bit by bit, revealing shivery goose-pebbled skin. Those hands slipped under his waistband and pushed it down, aside.

Cool air struck him, and then the warmth of Crowley’s breath. Aziraphale couldn’t think straight but he realized, vaguely, that he was desperately aroused. His cock twitched under Crowley’s gaze and a bolt of pleasure shot through him, and then another as he slowly unfurled.

“Yesss,” Crowley hissed. “Let me, jus’ let me…”

He closed his mouth around Aziraphale’s cock.

“Oh!” Aziraphale bounced his hips up unthinkingly. “Oh, that’s…Oh…”

He was hard as steel, now, and his hand tangled in Crowley’s hair, encouraging him to take more onto his tongue. He rolled his hips up again and Crowley moaned sweetly, oh-so sweetly, but with desperation, too, making sounds of hunger and need and want. Aziraphale could feel the buzz of coolness that always accompanied his demon, his Crowley. It hummed under his fingertips as he thrust up.

His movements knocked Crowley’s glasses loose. With a grunt, his mouth still occupied with cock, Crowley swiped them off and tossed them aside. And, _oh_, those eyes. Those beautiful eyes were looking up Aziraphale with such openness and intense devotion that Aziraphale had to reward the gaze. He lifted his hips and Crowley groaned with pleasure, eyelashes fluttering prettily as he sank down on Aziraphale’s cock.

Things were getting…strange. Aziraphale had never felt this way before. He was detached from his body yet very wedded to it, utterly focused on the feeling of his cock sliding over Crowley’s clever tongue again and again and again. Crowley was gagging for it, hungry for the taste of him, apparently frantic to get Aziraphale as deep as he could. He choked himself on Aziraphale’s cock and Aziraphale tried to yank him away. But Crowley fought his hands. He forced himself back down, pulling his hair, taking Aziraphale’s cock deeper, and deeper, until his nose was nestled in soft white curls and his eyes rolled back.

Aziraphale, enraptured, managed only another soft, “Oh.”

Crowley looked delightful, delectable, his mouth stretched and wicked, his eyelashes fluttering, his hips twisting up into empty air. He swallowed around Aziraphale and set a punishing pace, sucking and moaning in tandem. He was an expert at this, devilishly inspired, perhaps, to bring the weight of heady pleasure to bear on Aziraphale. And oh, those eyes, those burning yellow eyes, were so clever and quick as they looked up. Demon and angel met gazes, and Aziraphale had the thought—the distant thought—that Crowley looked wonderfully enticing. And tempting.

He froze and he was coming, but it was a startled orgasm. It twisted sour in his belly as the realization flooded through him. _Tempting_.

“N-no!”

Aziraphale shoved him away. Crowley sprawled against the ground, coughing in surprise as Aziraphale lost the rest of his spend against the bed spread.

“Y-you…” Aziraphale began, but he could hardly speak.

Crowley got up on his knees. He licked his lips again, catching a drop of white and pulling it into his body. “Tastes…you taste…”

“Stop it!” Aziraphale was standing without quite knowing how he’d gotten there. He paced fretfully, tugging his trousers back into order. He could feel Crowley’s gaze on him, burning him, and he recoiled from it.

“Aziraphale, what—”

He rounded on the demon, furious. “You’re trying to tempt me!”

Crowley balked. He shrank down as Aziraphale towered over him. “It wasn’t—”

“Don’t—_don’t_ play your games with me. I have no—I can’t _believe_ I was so foolish. To let a demon tempt me to sin!”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley grasped at him, hands tangling in the hem of his tunic. “It’s not—it wasn’t that. It’s okay. It’s okay! It’s not Lust, Aziraphale. I—”

Aziraphale struck him.

It happened quickly. One moment Crowley was kneeling before him. The next, he was on his back, his hand clutching his reddened cheek, and Aziraphale was looming hunched and wretched without quite knowing what had happened in between. Crowley stared up at him, eyes wide, mouth agape, but then something shifted. A great shadow seemed to pass over him and his features fell, his mouth flattened, a deep acceptance settling in the space between them. Crowley would always believe he deserved to be struck down.

His other braid had come undone, Aziraphale noticed distantly. His hair was wild and free.

He ran, leaving Crowley on the floor. The stairs warped beneath him and he was outside between one blink and the next. The cold night air groped at him with its iron grasp, and he flung out his wings. He drew them down and took to the sky, pale starlight a distant beacon. He flew and each wing stroke was like the clap of thunder, booming through the cloudless heavens. Aziraphale struggled up to that distant sky, and flew away into the night.


	4. With Smoke

Things were very normal, and then suddenly all the love went out of the world.

Aziraphale was struck down by the enormity of the loss. He was on his knees, sobbing, only dimly aware of the customers in his shop fretting over him. He buried his face in his hands and cried at the loss, a reflexive miracle sending the humans away as they all simultaneously remembered they had something they’d forgotten to do at home. And then he was alone.

He lay on the floor and cried for a good long while until his corporation was exhausted and no longer able to produce tears. It took some time to realize that it wasn’t _all_ the love. It wasn’t Love, God’s Love, which had left him. He was distantly thankful for that. But it was nearly as devastating. A low-grade hum that had been with him since Eden had simply vanished and left him empty. He felt a hollow shell of his former self.

His nose was stuffed. He rose and found a handkerchief to dab at his face. The tears had stopped and in their wake he felt a sort of distance, a cold and clinical feeling that refused to accept what was going on. 

What in Heaven’s name had happened?

Even as he pondered the question he knew, with sinking dread, what the answer was. The feeling that had left him had been so familiar, such a basic part of his existence that he had forgotten what life was like before it. But there _was_ a before: before Eden. Before Crowley.

Crowley had died.

It was the only explanation that made sense, yet even as he thought it Aziraphale shied away from the answer. It couldn’t have been true. If he had died he would have merely been discorporated and sent down to Hell, and that had happened before without Aziraphale feeling this way. So he hadn’t died. There, easy. Simple. Everything was well and Crowley hadn’t died. He’d simply fallen out of love with Aziraphale, finally, and wasn’t that what he’d wanted? Every time he looked at Crowley and knew his love was too deep and too vast to contemplate, hadn’t he wished for this very thing? That his dear friend could be delivered from the burden of loving an Angel who could never return the feeling?

It was an explanation. A fairly good one, in fact, even if it left Aziraphale quietly crying again. But there was another thought he had, a thought that took the form of a tartan thermos handed off in a red-lit alleyway.

“No,” he whispered. “Please, no!”

Aziraphale flew to his desk. He removed his box of letters and began shuffling through it frantically. Crowley was the only one who wrote him anymore—finding the whole thing outdated, yet nevertheless fondly accepting Aziraphale’s request that they remain “pen pals.” There were a number of letters from Crowley that spanned the last few decades, but the most recent one was from five years ago. How had he failed to notice Crowley disappearing from his life? How had he let his happen?

There was still a clue, however, a little address penned onto the upper corner of the envelope. Crowley’s flat.

He wasted no time walking. He flew across London and lighted upon Crowley’s balcony. There was a sigil etched in the glass of the window, but it was only effective against demons. Aziraphale wiped it away and slipped inside, calling for Crowley.

The flat was dark and empty. Aziraphale scoured the place, even going so far as to look under the bed. There was no sign of Crowley. Indeed, no sign that Crowley actually even _lived _here, at least not recently. There were some familiar pieces: the art on the walls, a statue of a bird taking flight. There was a large, empty room which got a lot of sun and looked like Crowley had been setting it up for something before he’d gotten distracted. These things belied that Crowley had once been here, but it seemed he hadn’t stopped by in a long, long time.

Aziraphale did sense something, however. Behind one of the paintings was a faint whisper of angelic energy. He slid the painting aside and was surprised to find a safe hidden in the wall. He spun the lock, guessing at the combination. The safe clicked open as he input 21 10 40 04.

Inside was the thermos.

Relief rushed through Aziraphale. He checked and found it was still full of his holy water. He replaced the cap carefully and locked the thing back up again, feeling confused. So Crowley hadn’t used the water as a suicide pill, as Aziraphale had feared he would. The implied the demon was still alive, but if so what had happened to him?

There were slips of paper in Crowley’s dusty desk. Some were unopened mailers, but there was also an invite to a party not far from where Crowley had attempted to hire those scoundrels for his ill-advised heist of a church. It was a hint, if nothing else, to where Crowley had gone.

Aziraphale followed the bread crumbs. At the dance club he found a bartender, who sent him after a group of women, one of whom remembered seeing Crowley’s red hair and sunglasses a few years back. They directed him to a specific street corner where a man sold happiness in small plastic bags. Aziraphale gave the man an angelic push to get out of this life, and then followed his directions to a warehouse in the old industrial district. The warehouse had long since been abandoned, but a street urchin girl no older than nine told him where he could go to find the people who had once spent their time there. Aziraphale gave the girl his purse and a bus ticket to a nunnery he knew of in Tadfield. He suggested that perhaps she would do better if she got off the streets, and she solemnly took his advice.

He found Crowley in a house. It was neither ramshackle nor well-kept. In another life the house had perhaps been the family home of a husband, a wife, two children, and perhaps even a dog. Now it was the nest of several strung-out humans, their bony forms cast over broken couches or simply laid out on the floor. He stepped over them, raining good will onto them in the hopes it would help, even just a little.

Crowley was in the bedroom but not in the bed. He was on his side in the corner, arms curled around himself, legs at awkward angles, pipes and lighters scattered about. He didn’t appear to be breathing.

Choking down bile, Aziraphale rested his hand on Crowley’s back, only to jerk away as ice flooded him. Crowley was so cold that touching him burned, and Aziraphale’s fingertips were stiff from even the momentary contact. Aziraphale took a deep breath and focused as much of his angelic warmth into his hand as possible, and then he forced himself to touch Crowley again. He pressed the palm of his hand against Crowley’s shoulder, blinking back tears of pain at the freezing, burning cold.

There. Beneath the cold and the stillness, something moved. He felt a faint thrum of demonic energy. He attempted to shake Crowley awake to no avail. The stench of stale smoke was beginning to sicken him and his hands ached from the ice.

He stripped the bed and used the blankets to gather Crowley up into his arms. In a blink they were back at his shop in Soho.

Aziraphale laid Crowley out on the couch and attempted to assess the demon’s state. He was gaunt and thin, even thinner than he usually was, and his high cheekbones cast dark shadows. His hair was long and unkempt. It looked like it had been jaggedly cut and grown back a dozen times. Crowley’s clothes were faintly wet and smelled of stale smoke and other things Aziraphale didn’t enjoy contemplating.

Crowley still wasn’t breathing. But he was alive, if only barely.

Working quickly, Aziraphale pulled on a pair of white gloves and opened Crowley’s shirt. He could feel the demonic energy weakly through the ice and pain. It was as if Crowley’s soul—his very being—had shrunk down small and tight and was now moving sluggishly within him. Crowley’s energy, normally so large and bombastic and sharp and witty, felt no bigger than a marble, and it was fading fast. With each ticking second that little marble of energy shrank smaller, grew more compact.

What would happen when his soul disappeared entirely?

Aziraphale wouldn’t wait to find out. He took a deep breath and called upon his deepest magic, the kinds of miraculous energy that had existed since before there was anything which _wasn’t_ a miracle. Holy fire burned in Aziraphale’s heart, and he drew it out for Crowley.

He pressed his burning hands to Crowley’s chest and _reached_. Aziraphale’s own form blurred at the edges, tendrils of angelic energy slipping out to encircle his demon. His very essence recoiled at the ice of Crowley’s body, but he pressed on, diving deep and searching for Crowley’s life force.

It was as if he had been plunged into a freezing ink well. He swam against the blackness that threatened to drown him, gasping and sobbing as shards of ice formed on his hands and slowly traveled up his arms. He could feel his human blood running slow, literally freezing in his veins. Still, he pressed on, digging through the ink and ice in desperate search of that tiny speck that was Crowley.

And he found it.

He breached the darkness gasping for air, drawing that life force out with him. He fed it with his heat and fire, poured all his energy into keeping Crowley alive. Beneath him Crowley convulsed, shuddered, and then began to breathe again.

Aziraphale collapsed to the ground. He shook as he tried to get control over his body, still whimpering in pain from the ice. Above him, he heard Crowley take in a few deep breaths on the couch, and then let out a great wracking cough. Crowley made a sound like he was trying to talk, but nothing came out.

“J-just a moment,” Aziraphale managed to say.

He was too utterly drained for even a minor miracle, so he went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. He returned and knelt beside Crowley, tipping the glass against his lips and allowing him to drink. Crowley’s throat bobbed greedily, and Aziraphale could see steam rising from his lips.

After he drank his fill Crowley fell back against the couch cushion. He looked up at Aziraphale through yellow eyes that were too sharp and knowing for how close he had come to death—the real sort of death, too. The kind that couldn’t be solved with a bit of paperwork.

Aziraphale chuckled nervously. He took to pulling off his gloves one finger at a time, wincing at the grey and frostbitten skin that greeted him. “You gave me quite a scare, my dear,” he murmured.

Crowley’s essence expanded, then. Not all at once—Crowley was too exhausted for that. But just a touch. Just enough for a faint tendril to brush against Aziraphale’s cheek and send a deep pulse through his body. A world thrown upside down abruptly righted itself as love flowed back into every crack and crevasse. Love Crowley was utterly incapable of hiding flooded him, warm and gentle and familiar.

Aziraphale looked down at him and felt his heart shatter and break and reform all over again. Oh, his demon, his only friend. To have such love that Aziraphale himself could never allow himself to reciprocate. It pained him deeply to feel it in the world again, even though it had nearly killed him to exist without it.

“There, there, dear. Just rest. It’s alright now,” he said. He rested his hand on Crowley’s sweaty forehead. “Everything will be alright.”

Crowley closed his too-knowing eyes, and Aziraphale felt him drift away into sleep.


	5. Near the End of the World

Aziraphale had never been able to follow Crowley’s train of thought.

Crowley always seemed to jump from one topic to the next. In one moment he would be happily relaying the latest chaos of the day, and the next he would be dredging up an old argument from six centuries ago. Sometimes he started conversations that didn’t make sense until decades later. Crowley always seemed to be thinking, replaying their discussions over and over again in his head, even as Aziraphale was quite happy to let sleeping dogs lie. Aziraphale suspected he practiced their conversations before they happened—which Aziraphale himself was rather guilty of from time to time, but he tried not to be so _obvious_ about it.

What it boiled down to, though, was that Crowley could be unpredictable because he always assumed everyone around him was on exactly the same page.

Aziraphale was currently on the page of having a lovely Saturday evening drink with his eternal friend at his shop in Soho. He was attempting to remember what it was like to be himself rather than Brother Francis, who didn’t have a bastardly bone in his body, whereas Aziraphale himself had several. Across from him Crowley lounged with his long hair feathered over his shoulders, one leg kicking rhythmically over the arm of his chair. Aziraphale, a bit drunk, watched his toes swing hypnotically. It was a lovely, calm evening without a worry or a care in the world weighing down on them. A rare sight.

Crowley, however, was apparently not on that page at all. He was a few pages ahead and thinking about what it would be like to stare down the barrel of the apocalypse.

Crowley, apparently, was thinking of goats.

He said as much to Aziraphale, in his usual roundabout way. “D’you ever think of it?”

“Hm? Think of what, dear?”

“The apocalypse.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I dare say I do think of it, and quite often.”

“Well, d’you ever…” Crowley stopped wiggling his foot and instead wiggled his body into a slightly more upright position on the chair. He was still slumping, the wine glass in his hand tipping dangerously to the side, but he looked passably alert. “D’you ever think about what you would do?”

“Do?”

“If the apocalypse were coming?”

“It is coming, though. Isn’t it?”

“I mean…” Crowley huffed. He sipped his wine, staining his lips plum red. “S’pose I mean d’you think of it like humans do. All that ‘what would I do at the end of the world’ sort of stuff?”

“Oh, I see.” Aziraphale rather wished Crowley would start kicking his leg again. It had been rather soothing to watch. “No, I haven’t given it much thought. I already spend my days doing the things I want to do, at least generally. Humans…don’t, really.”

“They really don’t.” Crowley tipped the glass against his mouth again and a single drop escaped. He caught it with his tongue, and Aziraphale was reminded rather violently of a dimly lit room during the middle of harvest festival centuries ago.

He cleared his throat. “Are you? Thinking, I mean.”

“Been thinking a while. Lots of thinking, me.”

“Right.”

“Just wondering what they did with all those goats.”

“The—goats?”

“Back then. At the ark. Remember?”

Aziraphale swam through the fog of alcohol and found a vague recollection of Noah’s ark. But goats? “I can’t say I recall.”

“All the…mmm…goats? There were a bunch of ‘em. Bunch of amin—animals all about the ark.”

“Well, that was rather the point.”

“No, no, I mean the ones that didn’t make it on. People’s farm animals. Pets, and the like. What do you suppose happened to them?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Mmm, bit rude, innit? Wipe out a bunch of goats just because humans aren’t getting along the way you’d hoped. But none of the humans even knew it was coming. Or, or trusted it was coming. If they had, d’you think they would have let the goats go? Or would they go out with one last hurrah. Have a big feast, one final goat-meal and drink all the mead?”

Aziraphale was lost. “Freeing the—the goats wouldn’t have had much of an effect. Not for a flood brought down by God.”

“Mm, I suppose. But it’d have been telling, don’t you think? Interesting that even at the end of their little corner of the world She still didn’t give them a choice. Not a real one. They didn’t really know it was ending. So whether they would have tried to free them or eat them, we’ll never know. You know?”

Ah. Now he understood. “I’m not sure any good could come from informing the world that the apocalypse is nigh.”

“Maybe not. But we won’t know, will we?”

A beat of silence settled over them. Crowley had finished his wine and he shifted upwards to refill his glass. His movements were slowed by drink, the decanter clinking against the rim of his glass. He squinted and pursed his lips, concentrating very hard on pouring without spilling.

“Mine, too,” Aziraphale said, nudging his glass towards Crowley.

When they were topped off they both settled back again. Aziraphale spun his glass and watched the wine cling to the sides. Annoyingly, he was now thinking about goats.

“What would you have done?” Crowley asked after a moment.

“With the goats?” Aziraphale sat back and thought about it. He thought very deeply, his mouth tight, his vision swimming from drink. “Probably a meal, I should think.”

Crowley laughed. “Always thinking with your stomach. I’d have let them loose. Maybe they’d have caused a stampede and knocked old Noah’s boat off its moors, made some of the other animals wander off instead of going neatly two-by-two. That would have been interesting.”

Aziraphale chuckled at the mental image, and then mentally scolded himself for laughing. “You would find a way to cause a ruckus even at the end of the world—or the end of just a corner of the world.”

“Well _somebody_ has to.” Crowley smirked over the rim of his glass. He swallowed deeply, smacked his lips, and sighed. He set his glass down primly on the edge of the coffee table.

Aziraphale was still warm and fuzzy, and had absolutely no inkling that Crowley was gearing up to say something. He was still thinking of the goats, which lead him to thinking about mead, and cheese, and salty olives.

As he daydreamed Crowley wriggled out of his seat and stood up. He acted as if his limbs were a touch too long for his body, slouching low and slinking along as he approached Aziraphale. He sat beside him on the couch and Aziraphale turned his head to smile at his friend, wondering absently what chaotic thing would spew forth next.

“You know,” Crowley said softly, staring out into the middle distance rather than looking at Aziraphale. “There is one thing I would do at the end of the world.”

“Oh?”

“It’s something I’ve tried before, but…” Crowley paused as if gathering his thoughts. “I did a shit job of it.”

Aziraphale had partially melted into the couch. He tried to sit up, to give Crowley his full and undivided attention. “No, dear. You’re wonderful.”

“Thanks.” Crowley turned, then, to look at him. “You are too, you know?”

If he had been more sober, less distracted by goats, Aziraphale might have read the warning signs. As it was he remained oblivious, far too chuffed by Crowley’s casual compliment. “Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley took a deep breath. Held it. “I love you, angel.”

Oh.

Of course he knew that. Had known that. Would know that. Aziraphale knew, now, what it was like to live without that love in his life, but still…To mention it was to cross a taboo in their relationship that hadn’t been crossed for a very long time.

“Yes. I know.” Aziraphale looked away. His good mood was gone.

“You don’t have to say—you don’t have to feel—” Crowley made a frustrated sound. “I just wanted to say it. If this really is going to be the end of the world I needed to say it again.”

“You know I can’t—”

“I know! I know, angel.” Crowley was soft. He was always so soft with Aziraphale, handling him so gently that it hurt. “Nothing has to come of it. Not now, or ever.”

But if not now, when? Every day Warlock inched closer to his eleventh birthday. Every day Armageddon loomed nearer. And, yes, he and Crowley were doing an excellent job trying to thwart the whole nasty business, but that didn’t change the fact that they’d never been very good at upsetting the plans of those more powerful than them.

Aziraphale turned back to Crowley. His blood thrummed with warm alcohol and intense, paralyzing fear. Crowley was still smiling at him, cool and soft and so gentle. That really was enough for him, Aziraphale realized. It was enough for Crowley to simply let him know about the unfathomable depths of his feelings. That was enough, and Crowley expected nothing more.

But was that enough for Aziraphale?

“You want to kiss me.”

Crowley laughed. “Of course I do, angel. That one’s not even a secret.”

“Well.” Aziraphale puffed up prissily. “You may.”

Crowley made a squawking sound.

“Just once,” Aziraphale added hastily. “Just this once.”

“Aziraphale…perhaps you should sober up?”

“I will, afterwards.” He turned his body towards Crowley and let his gaze settle onto Crowley’s lips, a daring challenge. “You’d best make it count.”

Crowley’s lips twitched. “Just one shot, hmm?”

Of course, it wouldn’t be their first kiss. Not even their first kiss on the lips. In millennia of adapting to human mores they had greeted each other in every way imaginable. But this would be the first—_the only_, Aziraphale scolded himself—kiss with everything out on the table. With Crowley’s feelings spoken and acknowledge as fully as Aziraphale was capable of acknowledging them.

Crowley was moving.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, and he moved as well.

Their heads tipped. Crowley to the left, Aziraphale to the right, and he was still watching Crowley’s slim lips even as he got closer and closer, so close that the vision of him blurred and Aziraphale had to close his eyes lest he be overwhelmed by the sight of him.

They slotted together, two halves of a whole being. For a brief instant Aziraphale contemplated lying to himself and imagining that this was like their other innumerable kisses, that this was just another kiss that meant nothing more than, “hello.” But he didn’t want to lie to himself. He wanted this kiss to mean all those other things that kisses could mean: fraternal affection, intense desire, feverish want, unending need, fathomless kindness, perfect compassion, burning lust, and cloying fear. A kiss could be an expression of longing, a consummation, a desperate plea, a whispered caress, a declaration of love. He wanted to be honest about what this kiss meant, and so he was.

It meant everything.

He parted his lips and invited Crowley into his body. Crowley didn’t hesitate—he had only one shot, after all. He slipped his tongue inside and each soft brush drew froth a tiny shudder from the angel. Aziraphale clutched at his arms, overcome with longing and need, too wanton to keep himself upright without the support of Crowley’s lean form.

Slowly, like an iceberg receding into the sea, Crowley pulled back. He tucked himself back into his own body, nipped once at Aziraphale’s lips and drew a gasp from some secret place inside him. And then they were separate again.

Aziraphale held his eyes closed for a long time. Gradually, he managed to open them, and found Crowley gazing down at him with open love and adoration. Aziraphale realized he was gripping Crowley tightly, even though Crowley’s hands were still politely kept to himself.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said again, because there was no other word in this or any other language that could express the roiling depth of his emotions.

Crowley smiled. It was a little sad and a little grateful. “You promised to sober up.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

He closed his eyes again and when he opened them Crowley was still there looking vaguely rumpled and just as utterly, breathtakingly beautiful as he always did.

Aziraphale took his hands back and folded them into his lap. He cleared his throat. “T-there, that wasn’t so bad, was it? I’m afraid all the fuss is a bit much for me but I-I do hope that tides you over.” Oh, what was he saying?

“It’ll do,” Crowley said. He leaned back against the arm of the couch, his limbs splaying in faux-comfort.

Aziraphale laughed nervously. He felt suddenly like the world was too much in focus, and he simply had to do something with his body. “Some tea, dear?”

“Sure. Darjeeling, if you’ve got it.”

He did. Aziraphale rose and distracted himself with the kettle and water and finding the right setting on the hob. By the time the tea was made he had almost gotten control over himself again.

Crowley had moved back to his previous chair. Aziraphale set the teacup by his elbow and sat across from him, bringing his cup to his nose and inhaling deeply, delighting in the simple pleasures of life.

Things returned to their usual approximating of normal. They skirted around the issue of Armageddon and they did not mention goats again that night.


	6. +1 And One Time He Didn't

After the apocalypse, and the trial, and the narrow escape, Aziraphale realized he had spent the entirety of his six-thousand-year tenure on Earth being an absolute bloody idiot. It took him another eight months to formulate a plan for what to do about it—a drop in the bucket for an immortal, but it still felt like an awfully long time. But he had to be thorough. He had to be as good to Crowley as possible to make up for all the cruelty from before.

He did his research, most of it causing him existential dread and making him miracle his couch back into one suitable for fainting upon.

He decided this would have to take place in a neutral location. Somewhere that wouldn’t be tainted if it all went a bit sideways. That meant the Ritz was out, as was the park, the theatre, and either of their abodes. They’d had a few too many good experiences in the Botanical Garden for Aziraphale to risk sullying it with what was sure to be a Conversation. Feeling out of ideas he did what any reasonable angel would do and bought a bus ticket to a tiny town that neither of them had ever been to, nor likely ever would (although he’d thought that about Tadfield, too, hadn’t he?). He asked Crowley to meet him there, thus ensuring Crowley would bring the Bentley and have a means of escape if he desired it.

Then he purchased supplies. Really purchased them, too, without the aid of a miracle. Crowley was worth it. He had to let Crowley know he was worth it.

Aziraphale couldn’t carry a tune, except in that angelic sort of way that turned every note into an adoration of God, but he was still awash with music when Crowley drove up to him in the field, the Bentley pushing ninety only to stop in an instant a dozen yards from where Aziraphale held a bouquet of roses with one hand and a “boom box” above his head with the other.

Crowley stepped out of the Bentley. He blinked (even behind his glasses it was obvious). He swayed forward and looked Aziraphale up and down.

“Angel?”

“I’m afraid I’ve been a bit of a tit.”

Queen’s _It’s a Hard Life_ was still blaring above his head. Aziraphale stuck out his arm and Crowley delicately accepted the thirteen red roses. Crowley looked at the roses. Up at the boom box. Back to the roses.

“Is this…?”

“Roses,” Aziraphale confirmed. “A sign of—of romance. And this ‘boom box,’ I did a bit of research and found that it’s often used during confessions.”

“Confessions,” he repeated. Dear Crowley appeared to be more than a little star struck.

“Yes, of which this is one. I…must confess, my dear, that I have been most cruel to you. And I’m sorry for that. I’m afraid I lead you on. Or rather, didn’t lead you on even though I really preferred to have been a bit _on_ with you. You understand.”

“Ung?”

“But this is…well, you’ve been so wonderful to me, expressing your affection, and I’ve been so terribly afraid to express it back. I shall attempt to make it as straightforward as possible. I love you, my dear. I have for some time now, I’m afraid.”

Crowley was very still. His glasses were perfectly angled so that Aziraphale couldn’t even see a hint of his eyes. His hand slackened and the roses tumbled into the grass.

“Angel.”

“Yes, dear?”

“I may faint.”

He did crumple, then, but Aziraphale was by his side to catch him. He lowered Crowley to the ground. The roses helpfully shifted into a petal-soft velveteen blanket, and he laid Crowley out atop it and gazed down at him worriedly.

“I hope I didn’t startle you, my dear.”

“’Startle’ isn’t exactly the word for it.” Crowley still looked faintly dazed, but being horizontal seemed to be helping. “More like ‘utterly bloody shocked.’ Why—why now?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you but the situation had to be perfect. I didn’t want to potentially sully a place we already enjoy if—if you were to reject my advances.”

“Reject—! Angel, what about the last six thousand years could possibly lead you to believe I would reject you? I love—!”

“Shh!” Aziraphale clapped his hand over Crowley mouth. “Not yet!”

Crowley’s eyebrows crinkled. He made a few rude sounds beneath Aziraphale’s hand.

“It’s—I just—what I mean to say is—oh, blast! What I mean is that I’m embarrassed that you love me!”

Crowley pushed off Aziraphale’s hand. “Angel—”

“Oh, not like that, my dear. I could never be embarrassed by you. It’s just, well, I haven’t exactly done much to deserve it, have I? Ignoring all your attempts, or worse claiming they were demonic influence. I’ve been terrible to you, Crowley. And the idea of you telling me you love me anyway… It hurts me deeply. You deserve better. And I would much rather you keep such thoughts to yourself unless—_until_ I have earned that love.”

Crowley’s face had morphed a thousand times during Aziraphale’s little rant. It settled into a sad, yet nevertheless fond, smile. “Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

“What are you going to do to earn it?”

Aziraphale stiffened with determination. “I have prepared a list.” He waved his hand and the list appeared, long enough to reach to the moon and back but helpfully only taking up a corner of their blanket at the moment. “I should like you to look through it and tell me if I’ve forgotten anything. I did try to recall every instant I had been cruel to you, but I have been _so_ terrible and it was, I’m afraid, quite difficult.”

Crowley took the list daintily between his thumb and forefinger and looked at the first item. “’Water Crowley’s plants whenever he requires it.’ That’s what you came up with?”

Aziraphale sniffed. “They’re in no particular order.”

“Angel, if you think I’m letting you water my plants you’re stupider than I thought.”

Aziraphale was about to retort that he was no such thing, but then he remembered number 10^14 on his list (_listen when Crowley is telling you you’re being dumb_), and instead he shut his mouth and nodded.

Crowley’s eyebrow tipped up over his sunglasses. “This is going to take some getting used to.”

“I only want you to know how much you mean to me, my dear, my love. You’re everything and I would be honored to spend the rest of eternity working to become worthy of your love.”

Crowley made a choked sound full of consonants and suddenly the list was abandoned and his hands were in Aziraphale’s hair. He yanked down and Aziraphale could taste the desperation in the air between them. But he paused a hair’s breath away, still too cautious, still too afraid.

“You may, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured. “Always.”

With a sob Crowley surged up, closing the scant distance between them and crushing their lips together. Aziraphale found himself on the receiving end of a kiss that was rather more like a grappling attempt. Crowley’s long arms and legs wrapped around him as though afraid he would fly away. Aziraphale collapsed against him, pressing Crowley into the ground with his weight and attempting to soothe his panic with firm kisses and unerring pressure.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he murmured between kisses. “Anything you want, my love. Anything you need.”

“Just you.” Crowley was wrenching at his clothes. “Just _you_.”

“You have me.”

“Needed you for six thousand _God blessedly damned years_.”

Aziraphale chuckled, delighting in the way Crowley eagerly swallowed the sound. He planned to respond in kind, or perhaps offer Crowley a poetic recitation, but he got rather distracted by Crowley’s tongue tickling his lower lip. He let his mouth fall open for a taste and ah, yes. It was _delightfully_ scrummy.

Above them the ‘boom box’ switched to playing a song that Aziraphale had never heard before but which contained the rather apropos lyrics _let’s get it on_. The stars were out and Aziraphale could smell the sweet scent of flowers and demonic desperation. The velveteen blanket helpfully readjusted itself again and suddenly they were in a sea of rose-perfumed pillows. Crowley slithered between the pillows and Aziraphale’s body, parting his legs so that Aziraphale could rest easily between them.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured against Crowley’s skin. “You are _intoxicating_.”

“Mnr,” Crowley said helpfully.

Aziraphale lapped at his jaw, nibbled his neck. “Delicious…” He flattened his tongue against the bobbing apple of Crowley’s throat. “So gloriously _sweet_.”

“Not…sweet,” Crowley managed even as he writhed beneath Aziraphale’s mouth.

“I’m afraid you are, my love. I simply _must_ get a mouthful of you.”

Crowley groaned. “This some sort of weird fetish thing?”

Aziraphale pulled away from Crowley’s neck so that he could glare down at him. “Now, really. There’s no need to be vulgar.”

“There certainly is.” To demonstrate his point Crowley lifted his hips, the entire length of his bony, jagged frame poking delightfully into Aziraphale’s flesh. “Isn’t there something on your list about letting me talk dirty if I want?”

“Not as such.”

“Better add it, then.”

“We mustn’t be too rash about adding willy nilly to the list.”

Crowley mouthed the words ‘willy nilly’ and fondly shook his head. “I thought you said I could add anything I pleased?”

“Within reason, of course. Perhaps,” Aziraphale said, ducking down to mouth along the splendid length of Crowley’s neck. “If you gave me a demonstration of this ‘dirty talk’ I could decide if it was suitable?”

Crowley groaned. “How do you expect me to perform under this kind of pressure?”

“I’m sure you’ll do marvelously, my dear.” He found a tiny patch of skin beneath Crowley’s ear that sent the demon writhing again.

“Angel!”

“Hmm?” He pulled back and gazed down at his dear, dear Crowley. “Too difficult at the moment?”

Crowley’s nose wrinkled in a manner Aziraphale would have described as ‘cute,’ if not for the fact it was a demon’s nose. “Angel, I’d like you to fuck me. Is that dirty enough for you?”

“It’s certainly a start.”

Before Crowley could retort Aziraphale shimmied down between his legs. He got his hands up under Crowley’s vest and shirt and found the knobs of his hip bones with his thumbs. The lightest pressure had Crowley squirming enough that his shirt rode up the rest of the way and exposed an adorable strip of his tummy for Aziraphale to kiss and nibble at.

“Angel—Aziraphale, um…”

“Hmm?” He nipped at Crowley’s taut stomach and flicked open the button on his trousers. “Everything quite alright, dear?”

“’Alright,’ he asks…” Crowley murmured to himself. “_Yes_, obviously, but do you know we’re still outside?”

“Where would you rather be?”

“Perhaps somewhere where we aren’t likely to get interrupted by any passing human?”

“No one will wander through here, I assure you. If they try they’ll find all the roads are inconveniently shut down for construction, and the paths through the woods have all been closed due to fallen trees. A terrible shame, but I’m sure they’ll find something else to do with their time.”

“What about…”

Crowley gestured toward the stars. Aziraphale turned to look. The sky seemed unremarkable. Calm, and a good moderate distance away. For a moment he didn’t understand, and then it hit him that Crowley was worried about _God_ watching them.

“It doesn’t matter where we go, my love,” Aziraphale assured him. “She knows I love you with every fiber of my being.”

“I swear if you say she _made_ you that way—”

“No.” Aziraphale interrupted him sternly. “I was made to carry a sword and guard a gate. Loving you is something I _chose_.”

“…You really mean that, don’t you?”

“If you check my list you’ll see that I’ve promised never to lie to you again. Especially not about the way I feel.”

“Dam—_fuck_, alright. Okay. Are you doing something with my trousers or are you just going to hover there?”

He didn’t need any further invitation. He grasped the waistband of Crowley’s trousers and shucked them off far more easily than their tightness should have allowed. He cast them aside and worked his way up Crowley’s waistcoat. He met Crowley’s own fingers working down midway through and together they got Crowley’s shirt and pants off and then Crowley was lounging back, bare and gleaming in the starlight, his limbs long and near-delicate. His sunglasses glinted in the night.

“Can you see?” Aziraphale asked, genuinely curious.

“Enough,” Crowley grunted.

“If you wanted…” Aziraphale murmured against Crowley’s skin as he kissed his way down, down, to the join of his legs. “I would love to see your eyes.”

Crowley made a pained sound. He snatched at his glasses and threw them away into the night, and then his gaze was burning into Aziraphale’s skin, his eyes blown wide and yellow with desire.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale hummed happily. “Much better.”

Crowley had a beautiful cock waiting for him, already hard and heavy and just the perfect size to rest in his plump hands. Aziraphale held it softly, gently, and flickered out his tongue to taste the skin. Crowley’s delightful flavor was more concentrated here, more intense as a hint of salt hit his palate. He could feel the tension in Crowley’s body as he fought to stay still under Aziraphale’s teasing little kitten licks.

“Too much, dear?”

“Not enough,” Crowley muttered. “Can you just—just a little harder?”

“Of course. Anything for you.”

He flattened his tongue and Crowley gasped. Aziraphale chased the sound, licked a swath from root to tip, which was perfect for swirling his tongue against. Salt and desire fell thick and heavy into his mouth and Aziraphale couldn’t bear to tease any longer.

Taking Crowley into his mouth felt _right_ in the way few things ever had before. Crowley was smooth and hard, and oh-so thick, just perfect to stretch his lips around for a good and solid mouthful. Aziraphale took him as deep as he could and hummed the same pleased hum he gave over a particularly excellent aperitif.

He realized he had closed his eyes in bliss. He opened them again and looked up to see Crowley staring down at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving. His hands were held tightly together atop his chest, which rose and fell rapidly with his panting breaths.

Aziraphale pulled back slowly, taking his time, until Crowley’s cock slipped from his lips and fell spit-wet and angry-red against Crowley’s stomach.

“You may touch me if you wish, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured. He placed a kiss at the root of Crowley’s cock. “I may even like it if you pulled my hair just a bit.”

“Yeah, yes, okay. Yes.” Crowley’s devilishly tempting fingers tangled into Aziraphale’s hair and tugged just once, so lightly Aziraphale could hardly feel it, before stilling again. “Did I hurt you?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Not at all. I think you’re quite incapable of hurting me, my love. Do pull a little harder, will you? Pull and show me just how best to please you.”

It took a little more coaxing, a few more times of Aziraphale licking at Crowley only to pull away again and murmur sweet praise, but then Crowley was pulling. He was writhing and thrusting, his body loose and lovely, his head thrown back, and his hands fisted into Aziraphale’s hair as he yanked him down. It was wonderful to feel Crowley’s pleasure, to know that he was _making_ Crowley feel this way. Aziraphale gave himself over to it, let Crowley use his mouth and throat until Crowley’s thrusts turned short and erratic.

“Fuck-Angel—I’m, I’m…”

Crowley was trying to pull him away but this time Aziraphale fought against his hands. He took Crowley deep, as deep as he could go, and sighed as that first burst of salt hit the back of his throat. Crowley was writhing and howling beneath him, his body taut with pleasure, and the _taste _of him. Oh, it was like nothing Aziraphale had ever experienced before. It was everything he never knew he needed.

He suckled at Crowley a bit too long, greedy for the taste of him, and it wasn’t until Crowley began to whimper with the pain of overstimulation that Aziraphale managed to pull away. He flicked his wrist and a handkerchief helpfully made itself available. He dabbed at his lips.

Crowley made an inarticulate sound. He frowned, cleared his throat, and tried again. “…Posh angel.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Crowley’s voice was rough, his syllables meandering into each other in much the way they did when he was drunk. “Jus’ went down on a demon and now you’re wiping your mouth like it was desert at the Ritz.”

Aziraphale was offended. “I assure you, my dear, this was _far_ better than desert at the Ritz.”

Crowley looked stunned. Aziraphale took the opportunity to lay atop him once more and kiss his adorably slack face. That seemed to wake Crowley up, and soon he was writhing again and tugging at Aziraphale’s clothes. He managed to get the bowtie partially untied, but then he tied it again in his haste.

“Oh for—Why are you wearing so many clothes?”

“No more than usual.”

“Far too many for this.”

Aziraphale removed his tie and watched, amused, as Crowley struggled to unbutton his waistcoat. “And what is ‘this’?”

“_This_ is finally getting to the fucking bit you promised me earlier.”

“Ah, did I promise that?”

“Yes!”

“I seem to remember _you_ promising me some dirty talk, but I suppose we can move on to the main event if you’re so inclined.”

Aziraphale sat back on his haunches and shrugged out of his jacked and waistcoat. They twirled up and neatly hung themselves on the ‘boom box.’ The slightly muffled music added to the ambience. Crowley was groping at his trousers and just generally getting in the way, so Aziraphale miracled them off with a huff.

“There! Now stop your fretting.”

Crowley didn’t seem to be listening. His yellow eyes raked over Aziraphale’s form, devouring him with a hunger Crowley rarely ever possessed. Or perhaps it was the kind of hunger Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to admit Crowley possessed… Either way, his look implied that he would not be very easily sated.

Aziraphale preened under Crowley’s hungry eyes. “My dear?”

“Just a moment.”

Crowley sat up and rested his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale held still, letting him touch and get his fill. The night air was cold, but Crowley’s skin was uncommonly hot, flushed with arousal and love. His touch was cautious, nearly reverent as he explored the soft expanse of Aziraphale’s body. His fingers nudged at Aziraphale’s shoulder, tickled at his neck, walked down the length of his chest to play with the hair there. His touch was everywhere and every_thing_.

After a long time of this Crowley leaned back again with a smile lighting his features.

“Satisfied, my dear?”

“Never,” Crowley said honestly. “But for the moment I’ve something else in mind than just touching you.”

With that he lifted his leg and looped it over Aziraphale’s shoulder. The accompanying eyebrow waggle made Aziraphale laugh, delighted, and shimmy closer. Their bodies were flush, then, and it was only natural to lean in to kiss Crowley’s smile. He tasted of mirth and comfort. It was the taste of coming home.

Miraculously, Aziraphale was inside of him. Crowley groaned into his mouth as he pushed in. And it was so _easy_. It was easy in a way six thousand years of toeing the party line had never been. It was easy to simply be, and to be with Crowley, and to let Crowley be with him. Each kiss was tinged with regret. Aziraphale wanted to pour his apology into Crowley’s body, make him taste the sorrow he felt so deeply over his actions.

He pinned Crowley to the cushions and began thrusting in earnest. God help him (or perhaps not…) but he was desperate. Desperate for the gasps and groans that spilled forth from Crowley’s parted lips. Desperate for the silk warmth of his body. Desperate for the way Crowley bent and contorted under his weight, let him bear down and hold him in place and just truly _fuck_ him in the way he had asked. In the way he needed.

“I love you.” He only realized he had stopped kissing Crowley when he heard himself speak. “Oh, my dear, my love, my darling boy. How I love you. How I desire you.”

“Y…you’ve got me,” Crowley whispered. His head was thrown back and his alabaster neck was so tempting that Aziraphale had to suck a bruise into his skin. Just one. (And then perhaps another, to keep the first one company.)

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured. “I have you. You’re mine, and I’m yours. I’m so sorry it took me so long to say it.”

“Don’t ’pologize,” Crowley said. “Not now.”

“Whatever you need,” Aziraphale promised. “Whatever you need I shall be honored to give.”

“You. Can you? Just…_you_?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale fisted his hand in Crowley’s hair to anchor himself. Each thrust drove Crowley down into the cushions and scattered the scent of roses in the air. “_Yes_, my dear. You have me.”

Crowley’s shout was more like a sob. Wetness spilled between them, slick and sticky, and Aziraphale nursed his dear demon through the aftershocks.

Aziraphale placed his hand on Crowley’s stomach and leaned back, admiring the sight of him. Crowley looked utterly debauched. His limbs were loose and languid, a silly smile twisting at his lips. His half-lidded eyes were still a blazing, molten yellow. His leg fell from Aziraphale’s shoulder to wrap around his waist and tug him closer.

“Was that quite alright, dear?”

“More than,” Crowley said. “But I didn’t say you should stop.”

Aziraphale chuckled. He twisted his hips and Crowley gasped, his brow twisted with pain and pleasure. He was far too wrung out to accept Aziraphale’s thrusts easily, but Aziraphale could see that he wasn’t going to give him up quite yet. He watched the play of ecstasy over Crowley’s lovely features as he made love to him under the open sky.

When he came it was almost an afterthought. He spilled into Crowley’s body with a shiver of delight, surprised. Crowley tugged at him again and he went willingly to lie atop him, blanketing him from the cold night air.

Crowley’s fingers drew circles against the back of his neck. This close Aziraphale could see every speck of amber in his eyes. “That was…”

“Hmm. Indeed it was.”

Crowley laughed. “I think I could get used to this.”

“I hope we both have the chance to get used to this.”

Crowley’s smile turned fond. “I really do, you know. That thing you don’t want me to say right now.”

“I know.” Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “And I love you. More than anything.”

“Mmm, can you say it again?”

“Yes. I _love_ you.” He punctuated his words with a kiss to Crowley’s nose. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Each time he said it he kissed Crowley again, over his cheeks and forehead, each of his eyelids, his lovely ears, and his thin, sweet lips. “I love you.”

“…Angel?”

“Hmm?”

“How long do you suppose that construction will last?”

Aziraphale affected a look of deep consideration. “I’m afraid it will last quite a bit longer. The roads may be closed for a month.” He looked down at Crowley. “Or more.”

Crowley’s long limbs snaked around him. “Perfect,” he said. “Now kiss me again and tell me you love me.”

Aziraphale did, happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you lovely people who left supportive comments! Sorry this last chapter took a bit longer. If you'd like to support my writing work you can check me out on tumblr at [adenil-umano](https://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/189728293900/adenils-writing-commissions). Thanks, dears. :)


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